


Always A Goodbye

by Verdant_Mercury



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 158 spoilers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Crying, Depression, First Kiss, Forehead Touching, Holding Hands, Jonny Sims Will Be Killing Me With 159, Loneliness, M/M, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, The Power of Love Y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-28 21:24:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21143444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdant_Mercury/pseuds/Verdant_Mercury
Summary: Jon goes into the Lonely, and he's scared. Turns out finding Martin isn't a straight road, and when faced with too much time alone to think, well, people don't always cope well with that.





	Always A Goodbye

The Lonely was cold, but somehow, Jon expected it to be colder. With time, the chill would numb his fingers, but for the moment that was the first thing he recognized. There was the oh so famous fog he’s read about and the empty world where his steps were muffled underfoot. He stomped just once out of curiosity and the sound didn’t carry as it should. A tape clicked on, and almost sounded normal where it sat on the ground a few feet away. He ignored it, for the moment.

“Martin?” Jon called out. He had followed their trail, as Elias had said to but he supposed it wasn’t guaranteed that he’d be spat out exactly where they were. He was certainly not under the institute anymore, and not in the Panopticon. It was London, Jon knew that much. The buildings had been familiar enough, though everywhere he looked all he could see was the absence of life.

A book was abandoned on a bench not far from where he stood, open signs sat in the shop windows nearby, and even a bike that sat against a post as if the rider would come back any moment.

Maybe it was stupid to have hoped that Martin would be close by. Likely.

“It’s never that easy, is it?” He asked the tape recorder. It just kept whirling on, and Jon half wished it wasn’t nearly as much of a comfort as it was. He picked it up all the same. He started to walk forward, despite the part of him that wanted to remain rooted to the spot. Maybe that was the fear or the knowledge that he won’t ever find another person here, or that he shouldn’t.

It was the thought of Martin, somewhere there and alone that propelled him forward. Well, there was that, but also the look that had been on his face when Jon had last seen him. The conversation caused his shoulders to slump with the heavy weight of guilt, and stupidity. Jon had been so sure that, that had been it. There could be an ending that wouldn’t have Martin gone to whatever plans Peter Lukas had for him, where somehow his inhumanity wouldn’t matter. That laugh that was a sound that Jon hadn’t been able to grasp as a sound from Martin Blackwood. It was a biting sound that would not be the last thing that Jon remembered of the man. It can’t be, so it simply won’t. The Lonely had him, but Jon would not give him up without a fight.

“Martin!” Jon started to call out again, despite the knowledge that it won’t be as simple as that. It gave him that moment though, despite how wrong his voice sounded to him rung out into the silent street. It was a moment to remind himself that yes, Jon truly was there. He was there, in the Lonely and whether he found it in himself to regret it or not, there was no way back. Not yet, and certainly not without Martin.

Jon had regretted it with Daisy, (Not that he would’ve ever told her that.) But he was unable to bring himself to feel the same about Martin. He didn’t know where to go from there. The fear was different, and the streets looked the same despite the wrongness that itched at his mind as he kept expecting to see a car cross the intersection or a person in the shops.

Jon was no stranger to fog, but it did not stop the urge to clean his glasses or to try and blink it away. As if that would do anything to dispel it. Jon took a deep breath in, and out again. He just had to take it as he had with Daisy. Walk further in, and you’ll find him eventually. Worry about the how to get out later because it would all be fine as soon as he found Martin again.

Jon looked long and hard at the streets and the hollow reflection of London stared back.

Jon picked a direction that seemed right and started off.

* * *

Jon couldn't Know how long it had been since he started to walk, but needless to say, it was awhile. Each step brought a new ache to his feet, and even running from horrifying beings hadn’t done that much for his endurance. That, or maybe he had just been there in the Lonely for a very long time. It was hard to tell as Jon couldn’t pinpoint the location of the sun against the murky grey sky, and the light never seemed to change.

When he was trapped in the Buried, it hadn't felt like that time had passed. There was nothing to tell the day, and the same could be said for the skydiver that the Vast had claimed before. Overcast sky, or endless blue, and heavy soil. Time didn't seem to matter in those places, wherever those places were.

What was abundantly apparent, was the infuriating fact that Jon had been getting nowhere. The recorder clicked on and off, and each time Jon had felt the slightest stirring of hope that something was going to happen. That, and then the fear that something was going to happen. As time passed on, it became clear that it was just doing that now. That didn’t put a stop to the hope, nor the misery that tried to creep in with every time it was dashed. Nothing was recorded beyond Jon’s dragged steps, and his quiet breathing. A couple of times, he spoke to it, but even that felt wrong with how loud it sounded against the quiet. It made him feel seen, but not like the ways he had in the Archives. It wasn’t like the environment was ever-changing either, or that he had seen anything that indicated that he wasn't hopelessly and utterly alone.

Anger had started to fight with the ebb and flow of the _click, click, click_ of the tape. It was the same, perfect mockery of normalcy no matter how far Jon went and by this point, he was sure he had gone far. Normal sidewalks, parks, streets, houses, and shops all undoubtedly _London_ but he hadn’t the faintest clue where. At first, the signs had seemed almost normal. Generic names, but normal enough. Now, they were just uniform. Streets, Stores, Avenues, Parks.

What had to be hours later, and all Jon had to show for it was a deeper worry, because Martin was still _Alone_, and he hadn’t felt like he had gotten any closer to him. Elias had said every moment wasted, was another moment for Martin to get further and further away. When Jon tried to Know, it had hurt and brought about a pang of hunger to his core. That too was somehow muted, and he stopped that quickly with how much it grew each time he had tried. It made his teeth feel cold, and his tongue numb. A bit of the chill would slither down his throat, and settle there, right beside the hunger.

Where he was then, had to be the fifth park he had trekked through. Maybe a patch of grass was a better term for it and he finally gave in to the urge and sat at the bench. Well, Jon sat heavily against the wood and stared at the listless greenery around him. He placed the tape recorder beside him, that turn turned on with a _click_. On instinct, he did a quick scan, of the area around but like before there was no movement aside from himself and the tape.

“I...” He almost startled. His voice sounded rougher than a few hours of disuse. Maybe it was from the calls for Martin? “I can’t find Martin.” It felt like a defeat to admit it. “All I see are the same buildings, but they all look generic...indistinguishable. Empty.” Jon sagged further onto the bench. “I feel like I’m getting nowhere-” Jon sighed. “-And every moment I’m nowhere, Martin’s here too. _Nowhere_. At least maybe he’s used to it?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Jon flinched. God, he hoped Martin wasn’t used to this.

Jon brought up a hand to his face and pressed it hard against his eyes. “No matter how far I go nothing changes. No matter how hard I try. The light never changes, as if it just all static here, an endless bleak sky,” A small laugh forced itself from his mouth. “They’re not the Fairchild’s though, or else I’d be falling.” A moment passed. “Again.” The tape continued to run.

“All I keep thinking about is the last time I saw him.” It hurt every single time and by now that familiar sting settled right in alongside the hunger, and cold. This had been going on for too long already. Walking would have been too simple for the Lonely, and in a way it made sense. He had found Daisy, eventually but he had heard so many others, trapped well within hearing of each other. To know that there was something else there, but just as helpless as you as you were all crushed. It made sense.

Here, they wouldn’t-it wouldn’t have allowed for that. Maybe it would’ve been a comfort, to know someone had been suffering right alongside you. Here, he just felt alone and that iced him down to his core. The tape continued to roll as if to beckon him to speak some more. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking, and the Lonely held all the power here. Made him feel that hope that there was a thread out of there, and maybe there was.

“I keep thinking of what if I don’t find Martin. I know, I know I’m not giving up so early because my feet hurt, but what if? What happens to him, or me?” Jon dropped his hand back down to his side and instead, stared up at the sky above. “Or, maybe I already got my answer before, I suppose. With that man that Jonah Magnus left here. Barnabas, was it?” He Knew it was. “Left here to die. There are worse fates though,” Probably. The sight of fleshless dancers flashed across his mind.

The tape clicked off, and Jon was left in the silence once more. He had half the mind to turn it back on, just to hear something other than himself but stopped. Knowing the Eye, the tape would get out some way or another, and he wasn’t there...yet. It wasn’t the suffocating taste of soil in his mouth, and this time he was not wholly prepared for this kind of a thing. Jon had nothing of Martin’s that could help lead him to the man himself.

Of course, the last time he had seen Martin would come up as often as it had. It was the last time, but it wouldn’t be the Last Time. The sting of the rejection still rung through his chest. He shuddered. No, that would make it worse. Jon let his eyes fall shut and tried to Know.

He flinched back hard against the cold that pushed him right back into his skull. The tape clicked back on only to hear his pained gasp. “I-damn,” The pain from that had felt like it had gotten worse. Or maybe he was? Trying to...see where Martin was, was fruitless but it was all he had.

“I keep thinking about the last time I saw Martin. He looked...” Jon knew the word, but it felt wrong because it was anything but, “Normal. As if was just another day at the Archives before-” Everything. Before Tim-Melanie-Sasha-Jon sighed and his eyes slid shut again. “Be-Before. I didn’t notice before, but I think that was a new sweater,” He could picture it. Martin there, sat at the desk with a look of surprise on his face for just a moment, before it was quickly wiped away. “It was a green sweater, A bit wrinkled. It was so..._Martin_.” Even with how cold his eyes were, not to mention his words. “It looked a bit worn,” Jon’s eyes opened.

He reached out for the tape recorder that continued to spin away and then he stood up. There was...something.

“The collar looked worn out but I had never seen Martin in that one before,” Jon made a face at himself. Yes, the tape already knew that. “I don’t think it was him, who had it all the time, though?” That sounded weird. Jon started to walk. “One of the sleeves looked like it had a loose thread, and I-I think,” Jon’s feet picked up the pace. “I think that’s bothering me now, that loose thread.” Maybe it would’ve at the moment had he not been there to share what he had thought was their way out together.

He needed to keep up the talking. His instincts cried out for it, so he did. “That was a nice shade of green, I think. A deep one, that brought out the color to his eyes,” Jon wasn’t sure why it felt so important, other than the fact that it was about Martin. His steps faltered and he turned so sharply he almost fell over.

Jon stood outside of a shop. A quick look around and the park was not in sight. “I-He,” He tried to think of more to say. “It looked good,” And he went inside. Something was there.

A bell hung over the door, and as he pushed it open, the bell rang out. He nearly dropped the recorder in surprise. Well, closer to flinging it in actuality. It kept on recording, so Jon crept further into the store. The door shut nearly inaudibly behind him. A thrift shop.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice came out soft, despite a part of him that thought it would be stupid to think he had just been in a shop somewhere. There was no answer, and Jon crept deeper into the storefront.

It was a haphazard collection of clearly worn, and used items. Half of him, the half that was clearly not thinking straight just wanted to clean up the mess that was starting to bother him. Jon ran his fingers across the surface of an old-looking table as he went past, the surface cool to the touch.

His eyes scanned over the shelves quickly, and on a whim picked up a book and cracked it open. He put the tape recorder down. There was a brief moment of ‘_Oh, it might’ve been stupid to do this_,’ before his eyes registered what was on the page.

There was nothing but the word The over and over and over again. He flipped it closed, and across the front, written in a plain font said _A Book_, and below that, _by an Author_ and he scoffed and put it down. A check of the rest of the books read very much the same, with the words swapped out. Four books were stacked off to the side before he realized it had started to make up a sentence.

_The people did not_

Jon did not pick up any more books, despite the clawing need to know because he had finally seen the thing he had been searching for. A sweater that he Knew was Martin’s. He left the books and recorder behind. He picked it up and nearly dropped it for all the warmth it held. It hurt and ached like a sudden slap against his numb fingertips. It barely deterred him for more than a second before Jon had swept it up from the fog that had started to roll over it.

Better prepared for the heat that rushed through him, Jon wrapped his arms around the sweater and held it against his chest. In the absence of anything but the colder air, being reminded of the warmth was a shock to his body. For just a moment, the world seemed just a little bit brighter. Then, the fog filled the shop more heavily and Jon had to run towards the door before it engulfed him with it, almost forgetting the tape recorder where it sat by the books.

He stumbled out onto the street, shuddering and shaking from the cold and turned around. The store was gone, and another frustratingly blank storefront met his eyes. But the sweater remained a near blistering heat in his hands. The Lonely hadn’t wanted him to have it, and he Knew it. So, Jon pulled it on. It easily fell midway down his thighs and smelled like a softener that he knew was Martin’s. Maybe a bit creepy to have pulled the collar up to his nose, but it was the Lonely and no one was here to see him do it.

“I...I don’t have anything of Martin’s, nothing physical or his voice like I did with Daisy, but I have something. It’s memories. I remember Martin, and maybe-” He took a shuddered breath. “Maybe that won’t be-but it has to be. Enough, that is. It has to be enough,” It would have to be, it’s not like he had a choice, or Martin had the time for it.

Jon thought hard.

* * *

The next thing Jon found was his scarf. His, not Martin’s but it once had belonged to the other man. This one was a soft long grey scarf and Jon brought it up to his face. It was on a park bench, and the tape clicked on. He ignored it for a moment. Once could be brushed off as happenstance, if not for him being in the Lonely. The second time was all the confirmation he needed.

“I think I found a way to find him.” He breathed it out quietly. “I-I just need to find. I can’t find Martin like this yet, but maybe I can get to where he is?” His voice lilted up into a questioning tone without him meaning to. “I can get to where he is,” Jon said it more firmly. “I just need to follow the trail.” His fingers trailed along with the cloth reverently.

“It’s a scarf this time. A few weeks after Martin moved into the Archives, there was one night I was there late. Well-many nights. But, this night Martin, he worried.” As Martin so often did until he didn’t. God, Jon had never really noticed, did he? And wasn’t he just...selfish that he didn’t until it was gone? Till Martin was gone, but no. He wasn’t yet. Not yet.

“He started to get...involved when I would go home. It was-I felt like it was annoying. A fully grown man, I can take care of myself, etc, etc...but Martin, he wouldn’t have it.” He’d rarely thought of this since, except when he caught sight of the scarf. It was a night he would’ve taken the cot, had it not been occupied already. “And it was cold that night. He offered his scarf, and of course, I said no, why wouldn’t I?” Jon’s fingers looped and twisted around the edges of the fabric.

“And he,” Jon swallowed around the lump in his throat. “He...left.” But, he hadn’t left like before. When he had left then, Jon knew he’d be back, if not that night then the next day to politely inquire about his night. There was a certainty then. Jon let the silence linger for a few seconds. The chill began to seep in through the sweater. “Not like later but, well, he left his scarf for me. Tucked it in with my jacket. I was going to return it, and insist he not do something like that again, but then when I got there-” Jon’s breath caught. “-He was asleep. I just-I left. Took me to get a block away before I realized I was still holding the bloody thing.” And then Jon had worn it all the way home because he already had it, didn’t he? He didn’t think about Martin’s face the whole time neither.

“Couldn’t bring myself to wake him, even if I thought it was an overstepping of professional boundaries.” And he never quite stopped being aware of that. He was Martin’s boss after all. _Before_. He’d always been aware of that gap in power, even...Jon sighed.

“I couldn’t give it back later.” He tried, of course, he did. But then, Martin had said he looked good with it, and then Jon had felt so flustered and quickly made his exit and that had been that. The recorder clicked off and Jon wrapped it around his throat. Like he did with the sweater, he gave it a small sniff and found it still smelled of Martin’s detergent despite the fact it only ever held that scent at the start.

Tim had given him such a weird look when he came in one day wearing it. Martin had flushed.

Jon started to comb through his memories of the man, and over the next few hours, he began to slowly but surely gather pieces of Martin all across the Lonely London streets.

* * *

The third item was a pen. A nice, simple green fountain pen with the end of it chewed in a way that made Jon want to drop it in disgust. “I always knew he wasn’t doing work when he chewed on the bloody thing. But, every time he noticed that_ I_ noticed, he got this look on his face."

A black knitted hat that Jon hadn’t hesitated in shoving onto his head. It was a hat that hadn’t seen much use, but it had little pompoms on the end of two long pieces of yarn had emblazoned it in his mind. On anyone else, it would’ve been childish and cause for some well-deserved judgment, but on Martin it was almost..forgivable. “He wore it when he interru-when he came in to say goodnight and he left so quickly, one of the pompoms got stuck in the door.” Jon was only a little ashamed at how he had almost laughed when he told Georgie about it months later.

A pair of novelty socks that Sasha had given him for secret Santa. At this, Jon’s mouth curled up into the smallest of smiles. “It says if you can read this, bring me tea. My understanding of the joke is that Martin would never have his shoes off at work,” Jon’s nose wrinkled at the thought. “So, no one would ever bring him tea.” Maybe no one had regardless. Jon had certainly never gotten him any. Jon ended up losing one of the socks.

A light blue tie with yellow polka dots on it. This one, he does not put on though the urge was very strong to do so. “He wore this the first time I met him. At the time, I didn’t like the tie.” Jon paused. “I think I do now.” Jon does, however, wrap his fingers with the fabric.

A fake spider that Jon hit with the tie covered hand. As it bounced off the garbage bin and onto the ground, he flushed. “Tim hid that in the cupboard one day. Martin was offended when my first reaction was to hit it with a mug.” He picked up the fake spider. “I broke the mug by the way.”

* * *

If Jon hadn’t any clue how many hours passed before, he certainly did not now. All that work, and searching and he now had nine items and a few more memories of things he had almost forgotten. Smaller moments, yes but maybe that wasn’t enough anymore. He had seen other items lost to the mist before he could reach them, and it had to have been some time since he had gotten anything new, and even more since he lost one of the socks.

And, with each new item, the warmth granted to them was less and less. The chill was a polar burden in his chest that then, and it only served to weigh him down even more.

As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t do this for much longer. His legs were sore and grew more and more unsteady under his weight as he kept going on. The tape only went on when he got very close to the items now, and that was half the reason he got the spider before the fog did.

If it was a game of speed, he wasn’t going to win. Time wasn’t looking very good either, and while he didn’t feel hunger, or thirst eventually his body would betray him and would give out.

Something else...was there. Time was running out, but he wasn’t sure what that meant for when the last second ticked down. Maybe his death, or maybe Martin’s. Maybe they’d both be lost to the abyss that seemed to be the endless Lonely. A world made up of a few, at least the two of them for sure but never to see each other. Martin was here, but he was also nowhere as well.

Jon turned on the tape recorder. A practised, but strange action. It wasn’t something he had done in months. “Items like this won’t work anymore. I need something better, stronger. This is...the worst treasure hunt. I..uh...I don’t know how much longer I can keep going like this. It’s not even physical anymore.” Just a good portion of it. “It’s the feeling that this-me-here is all useless. That Martin’s already gone and it’s-I...It’s getting harder and harder to keep going. He was already...alone. For months.” And Jon left him to that. Jon left Martin to that fate, and now he was going to get himself trapped in the Lonely in the hopes that Martin...He didn’t even know maybe Martin wanted this? Not Jon to be here, but to be alone. He said it often enough. All because he had tried to trust him, and look where they were? Jon closed his eyes. “How easy would it be for it to devour him?” He doesn’t know.

* * *

The buildings shifted, ever so slightly whenever Jon closed his eyes. The fog was a constant, and he still tried to blink it away. He lost the spider maybe an hour ago now. The cold seeped in through the hat, scarf, and sweater. His grip on the pen is tight, and he was aware of every movement as to not jostle anything loose from his pockets. He didn't want to lose anything else, but maybe it’s too late for that. It is for one of the socks, and the spider now. Maybe he and Martin were going to be like the socks? One searching for the other half, but the other just gone to the fog, damp, and loneliness and _christ_.

“I’m getting emotional about a sock.” That was beyond pathetic.

Jon focused on putting one foot in front of the other. The fog inched closer, and soon enough, Jon was sure, he’d see nothing but empty grey. He started to become familiar with that fear, and that somehow panicked him more. The Buried did not let him grow numb, and surely the Lonely would not be any different.

* * *

Jon stood in a bookshop. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be in there, but there he was regardless. It was perfectly normal, with rows of neat books all titled the same. A Book, by an Author with no differences in the script used. Maybe he thought he’d be warm again? But no. It wasn’t a good idea, and evil horror domains didn’t listen to logic and reason.

So, Jon just stood, or maybe swayed in place was a more apt word for it. Yes, Jon swayed there as his eyes drifted over book after book and an empty checkout area. Then, his gaze snapped back to the till. There was a scrap of paper and he stumbled forward with a speed he knew he’d regret later.

He reached out and nearly dropped the pen in his haste. His hand smacked down painfully on the counter, but the paper was still there underneath his fingertips and he dragged it forward. His heart raced, even as he prepared for disappointment again.

_And sobs until the tears make. The only other sound break, of distance waves and birds awake._

Written in a scrawl so familiar he ached.

Then, Jon Knew.

This was Martin’s favorite bookshop when he’d go out more. He turned around and leaned back against the counter. He couldn’t see Martin, but he could almost feel the steps he used to take. A route taken, and once loved. The smell of books filled his nose, and the ache became worse.

  
Martin wrote poetry, yes. Jon knew that and he had even read some of it. He didn’t like it, but he hadn’t hated it either. Then again, Jon wasn’t in the best mindset to appreciate it, but poetry didn’t hold him to root whenever his grandmother gave him one of those books.

Maybe it was different now. It certainly felt it. Jon placed the recorder down and hit the play button. Carefully, he recited from the paper. “And sobs until the tears make. The only other sound break, of distance waves and birds awake.” He said with all the care he once gave to statements, even the fake ones.

The ice thawed minutely and Jon spared little more attention to the bookshop that was now just another bookshop. Another place, another meaningful place. He repeated the poetry through muttered lips until he felt halfway to lukewarm.

* * *

Jon found the coffee shop next, and it took everything in him not to have sagged against the doorway. The door was open, and even there in the Lonely, it looked almost bright as Jon wandered in. Machines, cleaned and ready for use but not here. Never here. No warm drinks of comfort, or any warmth at all. All of it would be drained out until there was nothing but the Lonely.

Like with the bookshop, he can See which seat Martin liked. Once, he favored the window, and Jon almost Sees him. The other is a booth near the back, which Jon went to first. His hand reached out to touch the surface and recoiled hard against the ice that bit at his fingertips. He can See.

Martin used to prefer the front, but after things started to get difficult, he moved to the back...so...so his back wouldn’t be to anything. So he could watch whoever came into the place. He tried to write there, but nothing came to mind. All Martin did there was think, and whatever he thought of there, _hurt_.

Jon stumbled back and nearly left the shop altogether. But, he had to know. He had to know if the other seat was the same, etched with pain, or grief or whatever left _that_ in it's wake.

Jon’s touch was cautious and slow but nothing came. No hurt and no warmth and he withdrew. Jon’s legs weakened, and despite his best efforts, well, it least he can sit where Martin had. This place hadn’t hurt as the back table had, but Jon was careful as he sat.

It was the right thing to do after all, if not for the relief that crawled through his legs. He can almost See Martin, or where he had once been. Sunlight so bright it hurt his eyes to look at even as they slid closed. That very sunlight he has sees in his mind’s eye, a light that streamed through Martin’s hair, and highlighted his stray strands. Martin liked this spot because he could stare out at the people going about their day, he’d watch and imagine who they were. The light made his brown eyes all the more brilliant as they gave way to honey in a way that Jon had never seen in person before, but now very much wanted to. Warmth burst across his entire frame, and the tape recorder clicked on.

“I..god...Martin.” It was all he had. The memory of warmth had faded earlier and he hadn’t even known the depths of that loss. His body grew more sluggish and pliant underneath him as he sagged full-on forward against the table. “I..should...” But, Jon was tired. He would wake up. The Lonely would not kill him in his sleep, and he knew it but _Martin_. Jon took all of his scraps of Martin and pulled them close in a tight grip, half afraid someone would pluck them out of his grip and leave him alone and empty.

Martin was the very last thing that he thought of as exhaustion finally claimed his weary body.

_Click_.

It was his body shivering that had woke him up again. His whole body shook and any warmth felt far off and long gone. He almost sent his spoils of Martin to the floor in a sudden, heart-wrenching panic. He stopped himself at the last second and pulled it all close again. The tape did not click on.

“Stupid, stupid!” Jon hissed to himself. He shouldn’t have stopped. He should’ve gotten up when he felt that warmth and ran like hell until he found Martin, or whatever place was for him next. Instead, he napped and wasted even more time. At least he could feel warm here, unlike Martin who was still out there, _nowhere_.

He stood up so quickly, the chair fell back and clattered against the floor. It was a muffled sound, and Jon kicked it hard. It scraped against the floor, but the sound of that too was muffled. He regretted it as pain traveled up his leg and the fact that it didn’t make any sound a chair should.

“_Damn_.”

* * *

A subway stop. Jon couldn’t bring himself to descend the steps, but when he ran his fingers along the railing, he felt something. _Click_. “This was Martin’s stop. He...didn’t like it much after a while, but he kept using it.”

A flower shop. Jon only needed to wrap his fingers around the handle of the front. _Click_. The smell of flowers so sweet and intense filled his nose and he almost gagged against it. He made a sharp noise of disgust. “Flowers, for his mother,” Jon sniffed after a few more moments. “Before...and-and after. Every time Rosie seemed to be stressed and he could afford it.” Did Martin ever think about himself?

The next place was a cemetery, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to enter no matter how much the promise of Martin called to him. He turned away and kept going.

Martin’s grocery store. Jon did as he had at the flower shop, and ran his hands along all of the doors. It was an action he would have never done normally because of other people’s hands but it was The Lonely. _Click_. “Martin liked the deli section here. They had a good selection, and he didn’t have the energy to cook all the time.” It was so banal it hurt.

* * *

The park was not the same as the others, but what he wanted here was fleeting, and quiet. He walked slowly, eyes intent on the surroundings. Searching, feeling for that little piece that would bring him that much closer to Martin. To getting Martin _home_.

Jon found it under a rock of all things. It wasn’t a particularly large rock, but it was half-hidden behind a garbage can that Jon, would under no normal circumstances go around to prod at. This was the Lonely though, and no garbage filled the can. He checked anyway before he moved the rock to the side.

The fog crept closer and closer, picking away at how far he could see, and how far he’d be willing to go into that impassable fog. Jon resisted every inch of his being that shouted for him to run.

Another scrap of paper. It was an old piece of paper. His thumb ran across the wrinkled surface gently. _Click_. The ink had bled through to the other side. Jon turned it over and his breath caught. “Its...a cell phone number.” Jon didn’t need to read the name on the paper, but he did anyway just to confirm what he already knew. _Martin_.

"He...this was meant for me, once."

* * *

The Institue was easier to find, perhaps more so than it should have been. Maybe he had been getting closer to Martin, or his powers given through the Eye. Still, Martin had spent a great deal of time there, just as Jon himself had. So, he entered.

Jon wished he was surprised at the hollow reflection of the Institute. The fog seemed lesser here, but only slightly. Enough of it remained, that it was unsettling, but he kept going. Jon went past Rosie's desk, past the places that he had once worked countless nights as a researcher, Elias' old office, and descended right into the Archives. It had to be there. This had to be it. The final piece that would finally bring Jon to Martin, or maybe even Martin to Jon. At this point, he wasn't in any position to be picky.

Jon started at Martin's desk. His fingers hovered over the surface, and while it looked normal enough, he could feel the crisp air that emanated from the harmless-looking wood. He didn't pull back, nor did he push forward again. Instead, he just let his fingers drift along the edges of that frigid air. _Click._

"It...uh, it makes sense. Why certain places feel more like here than Martin." Of course his desk, his old one would be a part of that. Somewhere, there was a Before and an After with Martin. Somewhere the Lonely was able to creep into him just as much as the Eye had with Jon. "Why wouldn't it? We weren't-they weren't friends really. Perhaps, friendly, but not friends and maybe not even that, in the end." Jon couldn't ask any of them, save for Martin if he ever found him. Jon’s fingers trembled as he finally pulled away.

The Archive breakroom was his next stop. It technically wasn't just theirs, but it wasn't like anyone ever came down. No, it seemed that they all knew well enough to stay away, save for Rosie who had come down to one task or another. Whenever Basira was away, when Daisy was still gone, and Melanie was there, but lurking, he never saw another soul.

Jon felt the sharpness to the air before he reached it, and tasted it with every inhaled breath. Another scrap of Martin had to be there because there was a place Jon had found Martin so many times. Martin's care, his thoughtfulness, and cups of perfectly made tea. 

Four steps into the room and Jon was shivering. Another two, and his legs were even more unsteady under his weight, but still, he persisted. A couple more stumbled stiff steps, and Jon wrenched the cabinet open.

Nothing but barren, empty shelves. _Click._

"_Fuck_,"

Jon turned around to run for the door, but his legs were uncooperative and numb. They quickly buckled under his weight and Jon went down, _hard_. The recorder flew out of his grip, and skid across the floor, out towards the hallway, and out of reach. The tie slipped from his hands, and the pen was gone before he had a moment to register the faint clatter of plastic against the floor. Jon didn't have to Look to know that both items were lost. He scrambled forward, each brush of skin against the floor brought a new bite of cold.

He scrambled forward with as must energy as he could muster, all the while fighting against the intense desire to just _stop_.

The long and short of it all boiled down to a singular, unequivocal fact: Jonathan Sims was tired. Even as he pushed himself forward along the floor, he was just sort of sick with it all. The pain, the worry, the hunger. How much he was scared, and then how much he wasn't. God, the apathy was nearly worse sometimes. It was deep-Seated speculation that it might just be easier to stop, and it only worsened by day, maybe even the hour.

"Maybe-" His teeth felt cold in his jaw. "-Maybe it'd be easier. Stop caring like every other _monster_ I've come across." Jon drew in a ragged breath. "Claw out the last pieces that are still human." Helen did it, and probably every single Avatar before her-it-them did. Even Gertrude, probably when he knew her actions. "Stop it, stop the hurt." Jon's nails scraped against the floor as his movement slowed. To stop that hurt, or prevent it. Wasn't that the only reason he was there? Yes, he was there to save Martin, but was that truly it? Or was he just unable to lose another one so soon after Melanie, even if it was what he had wanted?

"Do I even care for Martin? Or is that just-is it just guilt cause I failed him. Failed as I did for everyone else." Jon pressed his face against the floor, and only flinched a little against the cold. "Am I just...playing pretend, like a child. An old reflex because something, somewhere in me says I should." Basira had seen thought the Unknowing, so maybe she had seen through him too?

He couldn’t reason his way through the Unknowing like Basira, or fight tooth and nail against his own God as Daisy had. He certainly wasn’t any Gertrude Robinson, as cruel as she seemed. She got it done after all. "Yes, I think, maybe. I was like them." Just like Jude, or Michael, the Lukas’, Hezekiah, Elias, Jane. Maybe it was better for everything, the world if the Archivist perished in the Lonely.

Jon laid there, sprawled out in an ungainly mess of sore, tired limbs. He had spilled the worst of his fears out onto the floor, and there was no one to listen to them. It was almost freeing, and maybe Georgie would've been proud? It was a nice thought.

“I...” Jon started and stopped only to clear his throat. “It hurts. I think a part of me-I always did. _Hurt_.” Maybe it just wasn’t the loss that made his grandmother the way she was or the fact that Jon had been a difficult child. Maybe she just saw what Jon would become. “Can’t feel my fingers” His fingers scratched weakly against the floor again. “And no one.” His breath caught. “No one’s coming.”

Jon let the silence linger once more with nothing to break it but the tape recorder and his soft breathing. Maybe even that couldn't hear his...this confession. Again, another nice thought but it was the Eye, and it would listen to him suffer, just because it could.

“I thought this was the way out. Find the pieces, find Martin. Bring him home, but we don’t have homes anymore, do we? I don’t. Maybe this is all just a cruel trick of the Lonely.” Or Martin. Maybe he truly did get swallowed up by it, and became just as monstrous as Jon himself was. Maybe that was where the truth lied, and he just never saw because he didn’t want to. He didn’t ask to stop Elias that’s for sure. All he knew was that Martin was taken by Peter Lukas, but didn’t that already happen?

"But, Martin, he was-is _good_. God, better than me. Though, that's hardly difficult these days." A few moments of quiet. "Deserved better than me. Always did." It hurt less somehow, to admit it. What he had felt for the last months, trapped behind his teeth.

With a quiet grunt, Jon rolled onto his stomach, sure he had lost the other sock in the pair to the Lonely, but that was okay because Martin Deserved Better. His arms shook as he pushed himself up onto his knees and inch by painful inch, he crawled towards the door.

Just as he had done countless hours, days, months before who knows, Jon spoke again. “Martin Blackwood chewed on a pen and I always knew he wasn’t working when he did that. He tried to give me his number once but never worked up the nerve. He missed his old desk and everything that meant. His face-” Jon took a shuddered breath. “-looks good with a blush. He bought his clothing from thrift stores, and his detergent smells good.” A hand bumped against the recorder and Jon collapsed forward onto his face.

His whole body shook with tremors, though from emotions or the cold he couldn't tell. He was back in the hallway, and he lacked even more of what could bring him to Martin, but that couldn’t matter. Not anymore. Jon laid there on the floor for a very long time because he knew what had to be done. There was one final thing to be said, and both he and the recorder knew it.

  
“...I won’t be leaving here, I think.”

* * *

His office looked wrong. There were no stacks of papers, signs of life, or how of how much time he truly spent in the office.

A cup of tea sat square in the center of his desk. Another hollow mockery that served to remind him of what had been lacking. It was still steaming, and it wafted gently into the air, but he didn’t dare go further in. The failure of the breakroom was still a fresh one, and he had already lost too much.

_Click_.

And he closed his eyes. “I dropped the pen.” Jon cradled the recorder close to his chest. “And the socks, the stupid fake spider that _Tim_," Jon sucked in a sharp breath. "And his tie. Can’t believe I did that.” This was the exact move he used to make fun of in those films. The only thing that stopped him from dropping to his knees to grab for it, was the lack of sound, and how bloody fridged the room was.

“But, that’s not what you’re here for, is it?” Jon longed to grab for the tea, to drink in its warmth greedily. Take it all in for himself, because it had been waiting. He still made no move to further enter the room. “It was a gift from Tim,” Hard to believe that was his voice, rasped and drawn as it was. “Before, of course, because Tim would’ve never...” A time where they worked together, but Jon was still new to being the Archivist. On the path to it, most likely but not quite there just yet. Was the choice already made? Had he already been on the path to death, and becoming?

A dry humorless laugh clawed its way out of his throat. “Secret Santa. I got Rosie something for it but Tim, he got me the mug. It says the mug that is. It says, '_Mean Muggin_’.” It sounded stupid to hear his own voice waver. “It had has a face that’s frowning on it. I had half the mind to think it was a dare.” Or maybe that Tim had forgotten the contents when Jon thought to his expression when Jon had unwrapped the gift. Now, it was chipped, well used, but not always well-loved. “Tim’s face when I drank out of it for th-the first time,” He exhaled and it was almost a laugh. “It was worth it.”

The tape continued to run.

“It lost it’s humor as time went on though.” And since his return from the hospital, he hadn’t used it. He kept it clean though, free of any dust but it was rarely if ever used. Daisy brought him tea in it once but only once.

“Whenever I would find tea sitting near my desk these past few months I always hoped-knew who did it.” But they never used the mug. “I don’t-” He started once, and then stopped to clear his throat. “-I don’t think Tim liked me using it much, near the end.”

There, in that office of his was the past, a record of questions, conversations, thoughts, daydreams all locked away in his mind. A normal person, a human wouldn’t have made it this far, this close but Jon wasn’t human anymore. He was the Archivist and Martin has seeped into the area, and Jon took in the warm air but it did not reach his core no matter how deeply he tried to breathe it in

This was the past, entrenched in miscommunication, despair, and fear. Martin would not be here, or if he would, it wouldn’t be for long.

So, Jon ran. The Lonely wouldn't allow this to go on for much longer. An end approached, but it wasn’t the End, and he’s wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or not. Every step brought about a new ache but he could not stop. No mug, no pen, and he would not find more scraps of Martin.

It wasn’t the Archives, even though that was what brought them together, but _Martin_. Wherever Martin was because he was everything. Not the memories of old memories, but the promise of future ones, one with warmth, joy, and togetherness. Ones they wouldn’t have, but it was nice to dream anyway. The fog was even closer then, barely ten feet away, and every wisp drew in a little closer with every harried step.

Of course, it wouldn’t be there in the Archives. Jon Knew where to go.

* * *

Jon got there quickly. Much quicker than he had thought it would take, and the moment his eyes locked on a basement window, he Knew that’s where Martin was. His whole core buzzed with the knowledge and certainty of that fact. Jon barely stopped as he wrenched the front door open, and practically flew down the stairs.

That wasn’t a good move, as the hard last step caused his knee to roll and Jon to smack against the floor with a cry of pain. Honestly, it was a shock the recorder hadn’t broken into bits yet.

Jon let out a ragged gasp as he tried to catch his breath from both before, and the impact of the floor. For a few seconds, all Jon was able to focus on was the pain and his breathing.

_Click_.

A door opened, and everything stopped.

“J-Jon?” And the world spoke. Which, as far as first thoughts went, Jon was astoundingly glad Martin couldn’t read minds.

“Martin,” Jon’s voice was little more than that of a rasped sigh and Martin dropped to his knees beside where Jon still laid painfully on the ground. He did manage to roll himself onto his back, if only to confirm that yes, Martin was there. Jon’s eyes drank in his features. The hair and those little flyaway’s strands that stuck up no matter how often Martin tried to brush it down, those brown eyes that even without any sunlight filtered into them, shone expressively beautiful even among the haze of the Lonely. They were more alive than he had seen them in months, and he would've taken surprise over the coldness of before any day of the week.

“What, how did you-” Martin stumbled over his words. His hands hovered all around Jon, close but he didn’t cross those last few inches to touch.

“_Martin_,” So, Jon reached out instead to grasp at his sleeve and Martin stilled, eyes locked on that little point of contact. It burned, but it was pleasant and not the harshest heat Jon had ever felt.

Jon held onto Martin's sleeve at first, then slid his fingers to wrap more securely around his forearm. Martin didn't make a move to shake him off, so Jon pushed his luck more. He slid his palm down Martin’s forearm, down to his wrist and wrapped his fingers around it. They both shivered.

“Jonah didn-_wait_-” Martin leaned back from Jon’s space, and his eyes scanned over Jon. “-Is that m-my hat, and scarf...” Martin’s tone rose in pitch, shock.

“And your sweater, yes,” Jon answered, without the slightest inkling of shame.

Martin’s mouth opened and closed and then Jon realized that Martin had a quilt over his shoulders. It’s a familiar one, one, that belonged in the Archives and to the cot that he and Martin had indirectly shared. Martin seemed more a little stricken and Jon took it upon himself to speak again.

“Why here?”

“It’s my flat, or was. Had to move after Prentiss.” Martin cast a look behind the still-open door.

“_Ah_.”

Another few moments of silence. Jon still stared. Maybe he should stop that.

“I just figured, you know. I’d be here for a while. Might as well be comfortable.” Martin turned back to Jon, and his eyes wandered all over his face, down his neck, his chest, all the way to where Jon held onto his wrist.

“How did you find me?” Martin breathed out the question. Slowly, he turned his palm around and slid his wrist gently from Jon’s grip. Jon let him, and to his surprise, instead of pulling away, Martin clasped their hands together. Jon entwined their fingers.

“Looked for you, and followed the breadcrumbs.” Jon stared at their hands, a single connection of skin. Simple in words, but it meant everything.

“You just..._came_ in after me?” Martin’s voice wavered. Jon couldn't look away from their connection.

“I..uh, yes.” That really all there was too it. Martin was gone, taken by the Lonely. So Jon had to get him back.

“I can’t believe you!” Jon’s gaze snapped up to meet the anger in Martin’s eyes.

“Wh-what?" 

“I-_you_ just charge into here, into the Lonely.” Martin gestured to the space all around them wildly with his free hand. “You didn’t even plan, did you?”

Jon opened his mouth to retort, but Martin just barrelled on. Whatever expression he had on, maybe it said enough to Martin.

“No, no, of course, you didn’t because it’s _you_.” His free hand pointed towards Jon’s chest but didn’t touch him.

“You were gone.” Jon’s unease dripped into his tone. Martin just scoffed.

“So?” Martin's response was bland.

“_So_?!” Jon didn’t know that a single word could bring out so much, but somehow Martin did it.

“I was gone for a while, Jon. Didn’t matter much then did it?” And suddenly, Martin sounded weary in a way that made Jon ache deeper than the Lonely had ever made him before as his own indignant dwindled back down to a quiet sense of dread.

Martin's thumb started to stroke his palm, as they sat there in an uncomfortable quiet. Jon considered his next words carefully, disregarded various statements, and phrases that sounded false, or too little for what he felt.

After what could’ve been minutes, or hours of silence shared, Jon finally spoke again. His voice was soft and quiet.

“Yes, well it matters to me-and-you. I can’t-couldn’t just...let you. That was different, before, Martin. There, you could’ve come back but _here_.” Much to his mortification, Jon’s voice cracked on the last syllable and Martin let go of his hand.

Then, Jon was being pulled into Martin's arms. One arm curled around his back, and the other went to his neck and Martin pulled him close. The position was awkward, but Jon reached up as best he could and grasped at Martin’s sweater tightly. His fingers curled into the fabric with a white-knuckled grip.

Maybe it was the fog and the pain of this place. To search for Martin for this time for it to truly drive home just how much Jonathan Sims did not deserve him. He was cold still even as Martin crushed him to his chest. He willed away the warmth, even as he grasped onto Martin’s sleeves, clutching at it as if it could drive away the horrors of the past months, of the past years.

For a few blissful moments, it almost worked.

Jon wallowed in the warmth, the pure comfort that was Martin. He took in every detail he got. The hair that tickled along his neck, the hands that wrapped around his thin frame. How soft he felt there in Martin's embrace, _safe_.

His Master wouldn’t let him forget, and he Knew it. Jonathan Sims was a monster, and monsters were not good nor kind. So, he could still do it. He could choose to be selfish and wanting. He already had before, when he fed upon the traumas of others when he ruined their lives. It should've felt better not to hide from it, to not try and protect himself from the true horrors of what he now was. And now, what he was always going to be. Instead, it made him feel all the more empty for he knew what was to come next.

Jon Knew at that moment that was everything, that time was never running out. They could’ve spent eternity in that dance, of Jon chasing after Martin until his body collapsed underneath him, and Martin could’ve remained until the End came. But, now the Loney would not be kept away because two souls found each other and that was not something that would be easily forgiven if at all.

“I know the way out.” Jon's voice was muffled against the fabric of Martin's sweater. Of course, he did. He read it in different statements, led to them by his God and The Archivist knew. “I can get you out.”

“What?”

“Connections, anchors. It works on every one of _us_.” Somehow, it hurt less to have said it. Us, them, monsters, Avatars. “But here’s, it’s the Lonely, Martin. Just...feel.” And that hadn’t made much sense had it? “What’s the opposite of Lonely?” Jon felt like he could vibrate out of his skin.

“Yes, I know-we know that already but, you-” Martin started to pull back, but Jon just clung to him harder and he stayed. “-We’d need an anchor, and _you’re_ already here.”

There was much Jon wanted to say. Hours of pointless and meaningful conversations he wanted to have spent with Martin, a promise of a future where they could just _be_. Jon closed his eyes, and selfishly soaked in the affection that Martin gave. Then, he pulled back and Martin let him.

Jon didn’t go far, and their arms were still wrapped around each other, though more loosely this time. Jon’s hands crawled up Martin’s body until he cradled his face. There was no small sense of awe that Martin let him, even then.

“Eli-Jonah wants me to come back, Martin but I can’t. Whatever he’s planning it’s-it’s _this_!” And to go along with him would mean something terrible. “You can get out.”

“Well, we'll just...figure something out.” There was the man that Jon, that the Archivist loves. Then, something soured across his expression, a prelude to the realization that was to come. “Why do you-you keep saying _me_,”

"Marti-"

"No, Jon why is it suddenly all _you_? We're getting out of here, together. That's what you're here for right?"

"Mar-"

"Because if you think that you're just going to send me off on my way while you stay here because of wha-"

“_Listen_,” The air shuddered and Martin’s mouth shut.

Jon leaned forward until their forehead’s touched. “It-I...I’m not human anymore, Martin. It’s too late for that.” _For me._ “What I need, no, what I _want_ hurts people._ I_, hurt people and Elias is out there, and he’s waiting.” Jon’s voice refused to remain steady.

“I need you,” Too close to the truth, and too close to feeling. “To be okay. I tried, Martin I-I did, but I think I was always too late. Too late for Tim, and Sasha but I won’t do that to you. I can’t. And what Elias wants from me is to be out there,”

Martin’s eyes are tearful and his grip on Jon was sure to leave bruises. They don’t have time anymore, but Jon can’t bring himself to let him go. “Maybe there'd be another, I don't know, maybe something else, a way, but right now, we-I can’t.” It’s cruelty to give Martin hope, but maybe some of it was for himself too.

“_Jon_,” Martin’s voice was cracked, and hardly a whisper. Maybe he realized what was going to happen, the true depth of his moment, but knowing didn’t make any of it easier. It never did. The Archivist cannot put it off anymore, and so he stared into those brown eyes, filled with hurt. Martin, it would hurt him, and maybe it wouldn't heal right, but it could. It was a merciless act, but Jon ran his fingers along Martin's cheeks anyway. He does it anyway because he’s a monster and he does not deserve Martin Blackwood.

The tapes had to be right, those messages that were meant to be a goodbye, because there was always going to be a goodbye between them Lonely be damned. Jon hoped that there was still enough of Martin Blackwood in there, that he hadn’t been hollowed out like Peter Lukas. The damped eyes certainly suggested it.

"Co-come with me," Choked out Martin. His hands went up to where Jon cradled his face. Eyes, damp and pleading.

"I can't." Jon ran his thumb against his cheeks. "What he wants, it'll hurt people, more people."

"I don't care." Martin's response was immediate and Jon Knows that he's said the truth. Maybe if he was more of a monster he’d leave with him, and damn the world and everyone in it for Martin.

Still, Elias always said he had the choice, and so he chose.

“Martin, _what are your feelings towards me?_” The Archivist hoped he was wrong, and he so desperately hoped he was right.

Tears spilled out from accusatory eyes. Martin bit his lip until it bled, but like so many others, the words spilled out as quickly as his tears did.

“I love you, Jon.” Martin’s voice was little more than a ragged sob. “God, I love you and I won’t forgive you for this,” Martin lunged forward over what little distance remained between them and then, Martin kissed him. He pulled at Jon's hair as if he would resist as if he could. Martin crushed him to his chest, held him tightly as if that would be enough to bring him along.

As far as kisses went, even for the first one, it wasn't good. Their teeth clack together, their noses bumped, and the coppery tang of blood and the bitter taste of Martin's tears were likely in both their mouths. Martin's tears were wet against his face. And because Jon was not a good person, he kissed back, pressed more against Martin in an attempt to etch every wretched moment into his mind. While he kissed the man he loved, Jon thought of all the reasons he did not deserve it. One of them is apologizing against the other’s lips, and Jon can't tell who it was. It was probably him.

As Martin sobbed against his mouth, Jon thought of Sasha, and how even with all his power, he can’t even recall her face. He thinks of Tim’s words to him, and not just the last ones, but the ones that cut deep. He held the memory of the sharpened words, ‘_After everything you pulled you should be gone,_’ and he was right. He thought of Gerry, and how much he deserved better, and how in the end, how much he hadn't wanted to destroy the page simply because it was knowledge. He remembered Jane, and what little probably separated them in the end. She deserved more than being in a jar on a monster’s desk. Jon remembered his voice, quiet, and weary. He remembered how good it had felt to feed on other people’s traumas. How much he wanted to again, and how little the urge had been growing to simply _not _try to stop himself anymore. 

With all the hatred, and pain, and loathing that he knew was deserved, Jon anchored himself into the Lonely until he knew with utter certainty that he loved Martin Blackwood and he couldn't have him. Love could bring one out of the Lonely, but he Knew just as well, it could keep him there too.

When Jon opened his eyes, Martin and the tape recorder was gone.

"I know you won't, Martin."

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea and decided to inflict it on everyone else before 159 comes out tomorrow publically. As an apology, I would like to point out that the worst of the Jon angst happens while he's wearing a silly hat.
> 
> I'm just super happy to have written this.


End file.
